


Screw the Roses, Send me the Thorns

by Ler



Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: Dom/sub Play, Fluff and Smut, Light Bondage, Older Characters, Spanking, Wing Kink, royal kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-15 00:24:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4585956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ler/pseuds/Ler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His hands touch the warm wood of the door. The castle sleeps - at least he hopes it sleeps, we doesn't need any unnecessary spectators, not for what he is about to do to the Esteemed Queen Marianne of the Fay, the High Lady of Fairies, Elves, Pixies and whatnot. This could be a disaster. Or-<br/>Or not.<br/>Either way, coming into this he has only one wish:<br/>That she would fight back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Screw the Roses, Send me the Thorns

**Author's Note:**

> Took me three months to get to this. In my defense, I had to do A LOT of research.  
> (If you mention 50 Shades in the comments, I hope the words "better than" would be attached to it.)  
> I just wrote 4k of bondage porn, let me be.

The Bog King steps into his chambers.

 

Full moon shines through the breaks in the curtains, its white light drawing lines on the stone floor, the carved wood of the walls, and his bed, covered in thick green moss. In this darkness he pauses to admire her: the proud line of her profile, with its high forehead, straight pointy nose, full plumpness of her lips, and the iron straightness of her back, wings falling like a silk gown down on the covers and off the edge of the bedding. She is a true queen if he ever saw one, even if her hair spots white streaks, and there are shadowed creases around her eyes and the corners of her mouth.

 

She notices him though, as if awaken from a dream, her head turning as his presence interrupts her pensive look into the moonlit night.

 

“Finally, my hands are starting fall asleep,” she smiles, barely condescending.

 

He can’t help but grin, her daring raised and poised head making him bubble with excitement.

 

What a fine game this is.

 

“My, my,” he walks towards her, a jump to his step, staff pacing by his side. “If it isn’t Queen Marianne herself. So nice of you to join me tonight.”

 

She groans, and he can almost see it, her eyes rolling to the ceiling.

 

“Untie me, you bloody cockroach.”

 

“How rude,” he walks around the bed to prop his staff against the wall, sneaking a glance of the disheveled line of her blouse, and the ripples of her skirt. She obviously tried to get herself free, minx. “This is not how a prisoner’s supposed to talk.”

 

She huffs.

 

“A prisoner? Don’t make me laugh,” she shifts, letting her legs from under her. “Coming to my room, tying me up. This little fantasy or your is costing me a good night’s sleep that is much required.”

 

“Oh, and what for?” he manages to step aside before one badly aimed shoe flies by his face and into the window behind his back. “Marianne, again with this?”

 

“Queen Marianne to you,“ she scoots to the edge of the bed away from him, one of her legs raised (how does she do it with her skirts is a mystery), toes holding the second shoe in a “ready-to-throw’ position.

 

“I thought we’ve been through this already,” he moves to her again, ducking when another shoes assaults his personal space. “You behave, and I think about untying you.”

 

“Don’t come close to me,” her crown gleams, making her fiery under-the-brow stare even more dangerous.

 

“Or what?” he bows forward so that their faces are on the same height, and _smiles_. “Are you going to _bite me_ , you Highness?”

 

He can see reminiscence flush over her face (last time she did it, he had to sit at the border talks with his ear bleeding – granted it made him ever more menacing, but there were some concerning looks as well), and uses her moment of confusion to lift her up and throw her back on the bed with a discontent “umpf”.

 

“Now, my dear Queen, we are going to continue that conversation we were having today. What was it?” his fingers rubbed his chin, before snapping with mock realization. “Oh yes, the _primroses_.”

 

She tries to sit back up, but it’s not that easy with her hands tied behind her back. She kicks him in the chest instead.

 

“Why are you so stubborn about this?”

 

“Why?” he almost chokes on his words, fingers fanning over his chest while his other hand, huge in comparison to her, lands on her knees to keep her from buckling. “You can’t expect me to believe that you do not remember the last time?”

 

He pulls her dress skirt up her fine slender legs to find breaches underneath. Damn fairies and their fashion. This used to be so simple. But it seems the older they get – the more they wear.

 

Doesn’t matter, he’ll deal with it.

 

Judging by her eyes going wide, jumping between his claws on her inner thigh and his expecting expression – they are having an important conversation, it would be rude for her not to reply - she is not catching up with his ministrations.

 

“It was ages ago.”

 

“She was your sister. _Is_ your sister. And you were very fortunate that I was the one she saw. Some one else would have taken advantage of this situation-“

 

Her foot slams across his face. He has a vague sense of déjà vu, and it’s almost sweet how his face now hurts in exactly the same way. Also, it still makes his blood boil.

 

“Enough of this,” he launches forward, one of his hand landing by the side of her face, framed by the runaway lock of her hairdo. The other one catches the waistline of her breaches and rips.

 

She squeals like a girl. “I need those!”

 

“Not right now you don’t.”

 

He peels them away, impatiently.

 

“It’s not about primroses, is it?” she continues kicking, her hips rising, but her skirt rides higher and higher up her tights, and it’s almost illicit. “It’s about you pretending you have control over this. Yes, let’s remember how it worked out last time. What a giant mess it turned out to be!”

 

Bog feels his eyebrow twitch, because the woman below him, even with her knees apart, her hair disheveled and hands tied behind her back, she still thinks to question his authority. All the time. Always.

 

So. Bloody. _Infuriating_.

 

He leans forward and looms over her, her breath tickling his lips.

 

“We are cutting down the primroses,” he hisses into her mouth, as her lips part in a silent moan when he digs his claws into the tender softness of her buttock. “This is not a discussion.”

 

Her eyes are dark with rays of sun hiding in them. Her groin presses against his in a mix of a demand and proposition, but her face is as impartial as ever.

 

“Who said that this is your decision, you selfish impatient creature?”

 

He even takes a moment, a well-wasted second, to lean back and look hurt. “Impatient? Selfish? Have we _met_ , my dear Queen?”

 

His fingers lift her chin, and her bruised lips, bitten with the row of her pearly white teeth, shine, lush, succulent. But he knows one thing that wound make this even better.

 

The Fairy Queen closes her eyes, head falling back, as he brushes against her hipbones, and squeezes her thin waist, and rubs his palm over the soft mound of her breast, the erect peak tickling his pads through the silky texture, and curls his fingers and talons over the neckline of her dress.

 

“My dear Queen,” he sits back, thankfully his arms are long enough, and she is still as petite as ever, and waits a moment for her eyes to batter half-open. “I’m all that.”

 

His hands rip the fabric of her dress all the way from the neckline to the waist in one swift movement, her back arching to him at the unexpectedness of it all. Breasts, delicate soft shapes, bounce, free, already peaking from cold air and excitement.

 

“Are you sane?!” her shriek is almost out of character, but not quite. “It’s one of my best gowns.”

 

“Was one of your best gowns,” he tweaks the tips between his fingers, and she is just so… _cute_ , with her angry eyes and flushed cheeks, bloom spreading as far as her neck and the roundness of her breasts. On one of them, almost faded now, is the imprint of his teeth. “But I do think this suits you better.”

 

He bends, pulling away from the wet and hot comfort of her hips, which will have to wait for a bit, not until she asks. And she will ask, he’ll make sure of that. The Queen is stubborn but not _that_ stubborn.

 

Meanwhile, his tongue can draw a wet hungry line, starting at the gaping triangle of her naked stomach and up, to her chest, a nip here, a taste there, and growl in the small dip where her collar bones meet and her neck starts, it’s white column upturned.

 

Like a suggestion, that slips pass her lips with no sign of trepidation.

“If you want others to listen to you, maybe you should cut down on growling and demanding and learn to negotiate?”

 

Immediately, almost as if out of spite, he snarls and nips on her jaw.

 

“Or maybe you,” he buries his face into the halo of her hair, one hand raising to pluck the wobbling crown off her head, and set it down on the edge on the bed, “My dear Queen,” his voice is purring into her ear and her cheek, unconsciously, rubs against the rasp of his, “should learn to give in. For example-”

 

His hand, flat palm, long spidery fingers, presses between her legs. Her eyes snap open, mouth gasping, her sex pressing against his touch, his fingers almost slipping in, but he pulls away.

 

“No, that’s not how that works. You have to _tell me_ what you want.”

 

Her pink tongue traces the edge of her teeth, before she snaps them shut, and groans under her breath, brows furrowed.

 

“I’m afraid I missed that,” Bog traces a single talon against the inside of her thigh. “Care to repeat.”

 

It’s a clear battle of her desires and her self-control, she is a _Queen_ despite everything, and it storms on her face, dark shadows over her eyes, hard line of her jaw setting as a lock to her mind, but

 

But he saw it all before, and Bog wins.

 

Bog _always_ wins.

 

“Touch me,” she hisses, a flat out demand in oh so not demanding position.

 

As she will soon find out. “That’s more like it.” He moves back, spreading her legs, wide and wanton.

 

_She glistens_. What a _delightful_ misery.

 

He lovingly pets her thigh. “Here?” The purposefully innocent look he provides drives her to cursing in a melodic murmur.

 

The Queen tries to kick him in the face again for being smug. He catches her ankle in his hand. Her toes wiggle.

 

“You need to stop doing that,” Bog throws her leg back over his hip. “Or I’ll have to punish you.”

 

The beginnings of a sly “ _really_ ” hang in the air for her to say when he slaps her ass. Hard. She gasps, hips rising, sweet honeysuckle smell of her arousal feeling his nostrils.

 

“Where do you need me to touch you?” He repeats, patience running thin.

 

She moans, head thrown back. It’s not good, the abandon of her body brings forth his own needs and the proximity of her opening, so terribly welcoming, is not making it any easier – he could have her right now if her wanted to, just slip all the way in there and take the edge off, but there is a point he needs to make, and how else to do so, but through some _positive reinforcement_. 

 

Speaking of. He raises her skirts to buckle around her waist, and touches, lovingly, the soft cushion of her tummy, tracing the white lines, wiggly little things, running down from her navel.

 

“Here?” It’s not really cheating, but maybe it is. A bit. He presses on the mound right above her sex. “Is it getting warme-“

 

She clenches, the muscles of her abdomen flexing, and grunts. “-unt”

 

He won.  “You have to speak up, Your Highness.”

 

The Queen raises her chin, proud, untamed, heated gaze locking with his, and licks her limps.

 

“Touch. My.” A wave runs through her body, and his breath catches in his throat with anticipation. “ _Cunt_.”

 

He can’t help it, really. Bog looms over her, fingers catching her chin, his lips pressing to hers. It’s not a part of their game. It’s his little weakness.

 

But he does touch her, with a gleeful “Here we go then”, sliding his tip along her lips, his length against hers.

 

Her gasp is haughtily, and indignant, and pooling into his lungs.

 

“What?” He presses their foreheads together. “You didn’t specify.”

 

He rubs against her, hips moving in strong yet languid strokes. He rocks to the rhythm of his breathing, and she catches up to him, but not quite, he is just a half breath before her, and he feels her competitiveness driving her mad.

 

“How does it feel, My Queen?”

 

“I expected,” a small huff of a laugh dances of his lips. “ _More_.”

 

She arches to kiss him, but he pushes away, sits back and roughly pulls her against him.

 

“Good things come to those who demand them,” the fingers of one hand wrap around his member while the other gently – this is not about pain, it’s about _power_ – digs talons into her hip, holding her in place. “So _beg_ me, _My Queen_.”

 

“ _Beg you_? You’ve truly lost your mi-”

 

But he swirls the tip of him against her erect bud, and she losses her train of though, a sting of _ahs_ and _ohs_ and _dear spirits_ her only response.

 

“I can do this all night long,” he lies, he is really too old for that, but she doesn’t care, not when he lowers himself and just prods, not quite penetrating. “Ask me for it.”

 

She hesitates.

 

It’s the issue of trust. How long have he known her, how long have she known him – they can barely tell, and sometimes they forget all together that there was a time when he couldn’t hear her voice, a heart-wrenching commanding song making his insides shutter whenever he looked at her.

 

The curve of her lips. The flutter of her hair. The weight of her stare, eyebrow raised with a silent challenge.

 

Marianne. His Marianne. His Queen.

 

But a moment passes, and he almost misses it, the soft whimper through a bitten lip.

 

“What was that?” He asks, joy splashing in him like tempest at the sea.

 

She doesn’t disappoint – she never disappoints – when she smiles, ecstatic, blissful, moonlight reflecting in her eyes that make everything else so very not important when she looks at him.

 

“ _Ruin me_ ,” it’s sultry, and maybe just a simply overdramatic, and she chuckles, heel of her foot rubbing against his back. “ _My King_.”

 

Before he knows it, he is in her, and a wail, a gentle _yess_ , crawls to the base of his spine. He settles – it’s a process, always was, a small back and forth, right and left, a figure eight, after all, he was so _generously invited_ – and for what seems like a millionth time thanks spirits for their size difference. He looms over her, leaning forward, mindful of her wings that twitch all over the bed as she accommodates him, and rests the palm of his hand against her rosy cheek.

 

He grasps her waist – there will be bruises and small talon marks, but he shouldn’t think about them, not right now, when she feels like _home_ around him – and roughly jerks into her. It’s a new angle - she can’t quite lay down with hands underneath her – and it works miracles, the thumb he places on her lips dipping into her opening moaning mouth, tongue flicking against it.

 

One of her legs shoots straight, foot twisted and toes curling.

 

“You like that?” Breathy, he smirks.

 

She doesn’t answer, lips fastened around his finger, sucking on it. He can appreciate the initiative, but not too much. Her teeth grace against his knuckle as he pulls it out.

 

“I asked if you like it.”

 

“Yes,” she arches, trying to bring them closer, her stomach rubbing against his, but judging by a whimper of need, it’s not enough.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Yes, My King.”

 

“Excellent.” His hand, wet thumb, strokes the column of her neck, barely any pressure but the feeling of skin against skin. “Now, let’s see how much can you take, _Tough Girl_.”

 

And then he pulls out, almost entirely, and slams back in – it’s immediately too much, for both them, her insides locking him in a vise grip with a stutter of his name. He has to grit his teeth, and keep moving, and think of something, _anything_ else but her _everything_ , so he finds words coming out of his mouth, the river of semi-coherent gibberish, about how great she feels, how much he loves doing this to her, and she sighs with affirmative mewls, and noises that could be _please_ , _yes_ and _harder_.  

 

And “ _Bog_ ” - she tries to get his attention, moving against him in all her pleasingly ravished glory of ripped clothing and hiked skirts and tussled hair.

 

Hand leaves her throat to crash against her rump, again. “I’m busy.”

 

She ripples, and he almost loses it, quickly pulling out and away, watching her roll and squirm with harsh sob, her crash heightened by the sudden emptiness.

 

He tries to keep a straight face, but it’s hard with a strained erection. Bog frowns, and tuts as she tries to catch her breath.

 

“Now that you’re done,” he picks her up, hand coming under back and rolling her over, rearranging limp legs and wings. “I guess I’ll have to help myself.”

 

She mumbles something but her face is buried in the covers, and he uncovers her buttocks, one of them beautifully red.

 

“Let try something new, shall we?”

 

He lifts up her hips – not much, just for the sake of a good depth – and plunges, into hot and very wet and still slightly trembling. Then his hands travel up her spine, a straight line, she always had such a royal posture, to grab at the base of her wings.

 

Marianne rises her head, surprise and shock and worry making her body tense again, as he rolls in with a series of sharp deep thrusts, and pulls just enough for the purple limbs to flex under his touch. They might look delicate, but they are sturdy, just like the rest of her.

 

“Ready?” he inquires, and counting a gasp as an answer, pummels her.

 

His movements is unhindered, she is so slick and soft and thick, and for a moment, when she shifts her wobbly knees and makes it even easier for him, he remembers the _first_ time, her tightly clenched teeth, hands fisting into his shoulder plates, tears prickling at the corners of her tightly shut eyes, and the overwhelming feeling of _love_ cruising through his veins. He can’t say that it was better then, but it was new, an unexplored country they traveled to together, and had many a wonderful adventure.

 

He adds a sharp twist to his push, there is a dull ridge at the base of his cock, and when he does that, it rubs her just the right way, even if she is so wet he can feel her moisture on the inner sides of his thighs-

 

“Love.” Her voice is so very soft, so tender and fond of him and his wild ministrations, he actually stutters and breaks his rhythm. “Let it go. Finish me.”

 

That’s it.

 

The grip on the wings is released, her sigh of relief tickling his ears, but his talons dig into her curves and he has not idea how she can take it, he is outright brutal in his final thrusts, teeth baring with a hiss and a growl, and

 

and

 

he empties himself into her clenching and spasming sex.

 

Marianne slips down on the bed, and he follows, saving her from being crushed by a last-minute elbow over her head to lean on. He rests his forehead on her shoulder, trembling lightly, and kisses the side of her neck.

 

Beneath him, her arms twist, and Bog urgently leans aside to slip a talon over the vines holding her wrists together. Her hands fall apart free and she hisses, moving them to rest over her head, fingers rubbing the red bracelet-like marks. He, in turn, caresses the bruises his slaps left on her hip and continues with his lip-touches on her clothed back – he just got to the spots where her wings pour out of her body and he licks them, apologetic for his earlier rough treatment.

 

Marianne raises herself on her elbows and looks over her shoulder.

 

“Did you come up with that yourself?” Her voice is tired and gently amused. She purrs when he nuzzles between her shoulder blades.

 

“It was a spur of a moment,” he feel his face burn, and pulls down her skirt, tucking it under her. Only then he allows himself to meet her gaze. “Are you alright, love?”

 

She looks exhausted, but she sniggers into her fluffy collar, hanging awkwardly with the blouse ripped, and a wide joyous smile spreads on her face. “I’m wonderful, honey. Y _ou were wonderful_.”

 

She scoots closer, her whole body pressed against his, naked breasts squeezing between their bodies, a playful spark in her eyes. Bog feels an urgent need to wrap something around them, so he pulls on the cover and tugs it over them. Something metallic falls on the floor with a clinging sound. He thinks it must be her crown.

 

“Do your hands hurt?” He can’t help it, her cold feet touch his and bubbling stream of worry pours out into the moss cocoon he creates. “Was the neck thing too much? I tried to be as gentle as I could.”

 

She rests her head on his arm, and even in the dark, moonlight barely reaching them, her eyes are warm like kindling fire, when her fingertips touch his face: the furrow of his brow, the point of his nose, the hard line of his skeptical mouth.

 

She brims with glee like a girl, and he suddenly feels so very old and battered, and ever so undeserving. Her hands cup his face.

 

“You did so well.”

 

It’s not a kiss, it’s a full barrage of them against his face, happy light pecks, on his lips, nose, cheeks and jawline.

 

One nose presses to another. “But tomorrow,” and suddenly her voice is a slither and it crawls right through the crack of his plating and tickles the still excited edges of his nerves. “The Queen will be out to conquer.”

 

Her fingertips, scratchy little nails, drum against his neck, and claw into the plates of his chest.

 

Oh. Oh, he likes that. “And who is it that she is out for?”

 

Marianne’s lips twitch. Her thigh, wet and soft, tries to hook over his hip. He helps it, pulling on her clothes.

 

“She heard that there is a Goblin King,” her words are lazy and muzzled beings, forming into sentences and falling apart, as the pull between his legs raises it’s curious head. “Who haven’t been brought to his knees in a _long time_.“

 

He sighs, shaking his head. Marianne laughs, launching at him as he rolls them over, face buried into her neck and arms wrapped so tight around her torso, he can feel the strained press of her ribs on his inner arms.

 

“I love you,” he tells to her clavicles. She plays with his fringe and smells of honeysuckle and sweat and cold mornings, dewdrops handing on the sharp blades of grass.

 

“I love you more.” And it’s an invitation, the one he is so _very_ tempted to accept.

 

Something crashes on the other end of the castle. Their groans are perfectly in sync.

 

“Well, I’m not going to go and look at what they did this time.” She rubs her face. “Dad _warned_ me. _Daughters_ , he said. Ready to get hitched and rule kingdoms. Not ready to let people sleep at night.” She groans at his amused smirk. “Remind me, why did we have children?”

 

But the image comes to mind, of his wide palm against the roundness of her belly, warm and _alive_ , her hand over his, happiness crushing his heart so hard he thought it would kill him.

 

“I’ll go,” he pulls away, but there is a pressure on the back of his head, and a mouth against his, with teeth and tongue and hot moist breath, her hand creeping down his spine to scratch between his wings.

 

“Bad parenting,” he comments into her lips.

 

“So very _very_ bad,” she agrees.

 

FIN 


End file.
